


What You've Done to Me

by callay



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Obscurus (Harry Potter), Smut, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/pseuds/callay
Summary: Credence, or the thing that used to be Credence, touches Graves.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knucklewhite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knucklewhite/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Что ты наделал](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9435212) by [cicada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicada/pseuds/cicada)



> Huge thanks to [kyrilu](http://kyrilu.tumblr.com) for betaing and generally being an awesome shipmate. This fic is dedicated to [knucklewhite](http://knucklewhite.tumblr.com), who definitely owes me now.
> 
> (Can you guys believe it took me this long to write tentacle fic?)

Credence, or the thing that used to be Credence, touches Graves.

He has never touched Graves before. Being touched was already too much, so to reach out himself was almost unthinkable. But that Credence is gone, now, and the thing he has become doesn’t think, it just acts.

Credence touches Graves’ throat.

The mere whim is enough to reach out with an arm of swirling, howling black and slam it around Graves’ throat, hard enough to knock him off his feet, hard enough to bear him down onto the concrete of the subway platform, and hold him there, on his back.

It takes Graves a moment to recover, but when he does, he doesn’t struggle. “Credence,” he says instead, his voice raw. “Credence, please.” His eyes are bright and intent, roaming over the huge, shifting shape of Credence.

Credence used to love the word _please_ in Graves’ mouth. Please meant he has a choice. Even Graves’ sternest “Please hurry,” would give Credence a tiny thrill of power, and then a rush of warmth in knowing that he was choosing Graves.

The thrill of power, at least, is still there. He tightens his grip on Graves’ throat to make him say it again, and he does: “Please – please forgive me, Credence.”

_I’m not sure I want to, Mr. Graves._

Credence, now, is a thing that destroys. He is a thing that loves chaos. To that end, he is a thing that spreads, that seeks out cracks and splits them open. Maybe that is what he wants, when he reaches out and touches Graves, to pry at his cracks until he shatters.

Or maybe he wants to break Graves open and take careful measure of every little bit of him, in case that will help him understand, exactly, how Graves could do this to him.

And so he swallows Graves up, encircling him, trapping Graves as if he were in the eye of a tornado. The voices of Tina and her friend grow distant, because this is not about them. This is between the thing that was Credence, and the person calling himself Graves.

He touches him.

He does it with dozens of black tendrils at once, all reaching into the hollow at the center of Credence’s form to touch Graves. He touches Graves’ arms, his legs, his chest, his face. Fingers of darkness skim along his jaw, curl around his ears, slide through his hair. Then, lower, the bare skin at the back of his neck.

Credence can feel, as if sensing a ghost, Graves’ hand on the neck of the boy he used to be. The weight and warmth of it. He shivers, and the part of him that’s touching Graves squeezes the back of his neck like a threat.

“Credence,” says Graves, closing his eyes. It’s not a plea, barely a request. Just a name.

_Mr. Graves._

Without meaning to, he finds himself touching all the places where Graves used to touch him. Graves’ shoulders, his back, his arms. Darkness forces Graves’ fists open and strokes his palms.

Graves barely moves as the tendrils slide and curl over him, but Credence can feel the tension in him, and he thrills at it. All Credence wants is to destroy, to take things that are neat and render them chaotic. And Graves is a very neat thing, with his many layers of clothes in stark white and black, his strong, severe eyebrows, his clean square nails.

Credence wants to pull him apart from the outside in.

He starts with Graves’ long scarf, tugging it free and then carrying it away into the swirling darkness of himself, where he can tangle it into knots. He runs tendrils of black through Graves’s slicked-back hair and he pulls at the buttons on Graves’ coat, and his jacket, and his vest. So many buttons. Credence picks at the threads of them until they fly off and spin through his darkness like stars.

Graves’ tie is undone, and then his belt, which Credence whips free and throws away with one swift swirling movement. Graves’ shoelaces and then his shoes, tongues lolling as they float into the dark mass that is Credence. Graves half sits up when Credence pulls off his shoes, but he’s met by an arm of darkness that pushes him easily back down to the ground.

“Credence,” says Graves again. Credence, busy slipping free Graves’ intricate collar pins, feels him swallow. “What do you want from me?”

The fierce, churning center of Credence wants to answer:

_To make you suffer._

The seeking tendrils of Credence want to answer:

_To understand you._

And the weak human heart of Credence, somewhere still inside him, can only echo: _You. You._

He touches him.

Credence takes Graves’ arms and pulls them over his head. He pushes Graves’ hands against the ground, fingers splayed, each knuckle pressed carefully to the concrete. It would take no more effort than a blink to break his fingers, he thinks, hesitating momentarily while other pieces of him, unaffected, touch and pull and tug at Graves.

When Graves draws in a breath, Credence can trace the journey of it: the pull of air against him, the shudder and swell of Graves’ chest, and then the quick outward push of breath from Graves’ nose and mouth. Graves’ hands are trying to clench despite Credence’s firm grip on them and Credence can feel the pound of his pulse where he’s curled around his wrists. He can taste Graves’ sweat in the air.

In a distant way, Credence is pleased. He is a thing that destroys, and already he has eroded the mysterious half-god that was Mr. Graves into a mere man, who shivers nervously at Credence’s touch.

“I’ll help you, Credence,” says Graves, clearly making an effort to keep his voice even. “Whatever you need, only – please. Just tell me what I can do.”

_Maybe I like you like this, Mr. Graves._

He touches Graves’ chest, pushing under his thin white undershirt. He feels the coarse hair there, his ribs and his firm muscles, his nipples. Graves’ breath comes faster still, chest trembling. Credence doesn’t, actually, know what his touch feels like to Graves. Is it soft, when he brushes Graves’ skin, or do the whirling particles of him feel like the sting of blown sand? Graves flinches sometimes, teeth gritting, but that’s only when Credence touches somewhere sensitive: the hollow of his throat, the inside of his wrist, his navel. His face.

And Credence can’t stop touching Graves’ face – tracing the shape of his nose, feeling the lines around his mouth, sliding along his dark eyebrows and then dipping beneath his brow to trace darkness over both his eyes. Graves is, thinks Credence, handsome.

It’s a new thought, because Credence had never actually looked at him before, not directly. When he would picture him, it was like a child drawing the sun in crayon: the best representation possible with only side glances to work with. Now, though, he can see every bit of Graves. He could pull open his ribs if he wanted to and see his heart, take each organ and learn the shape of it.

Because he can’t help but wonder, if this devouring blackness is what was inside of Credence, what would be found inside of Graves.

And so Credence, who is a thing that breaks things open, touches Graves’ mouth.

Graves’ mouth is a tight line. Unyielding. Even with his elegant clothes half in pieces, even with his severe hairstyle in disarray, there’s something of his old power, still. Credence can feel it in the tension of his muscles, the fierce set of his mouth.

But he’s no match for Credence, who at first brushes lightly across Graves’ lips, feeling the shape of them. Soon, though, his touch is more forceful. He pushes between Graves’ teeth, forces his mouth open, spills himself inside.

It’s hot and wet inside Graves. His teeth are smooth with sharp edges, his tongue strong and flexible. Credence, who moments ago had pressed himself to the rounded corners of the subway station, now explores the corners of Graves’ mouth.

Graves, he remembers, had kissed him once.

\---

There was nothing special about it. Credence doesn’t even remember what happened before – he only remembers Graves touching him.

Graves touching him is everything. Both of Graves’ hands are on Credence’s cheeks, big and warm, and it feels like too much: Graves’ hands holding Credence’s head like an embrace, the firm pressure of his fingers against Credence’s scalp, the gentle friction of his thumbs on Credence’s cheeks. Credence closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. He wants to bury himself in this feeling like an animal curling into its burrow.

“God,” breathes Graves. His thumbs slide down, close to the corners of Credence’s mouth. “You –”

And then he kisses him.

Credence is not expecting it. Credence has never been kissed. Graves’ mouth against his is hot, rough, foreign. His hands around Credence’s head are tighter than ever and Credence can’t pull away, only stand there frozen, feeling the strange intimate slide of Graves’ lips and then the firm, wet push of his tongue.

He feels exposed, unprepared. If he had known – if he hadn’t opened himself to the sensation of Graves’ touch quite so eagerly – maybe he could have protected himself against this strange, overwhelming sensation, this kiss. It’s not at all like the slow, encompassing warmth of Graves’ touch, it’s something urgent and frightening, sending electricity humming through his veins, tingling all the way to his fingers and toes before gathering into a knot of heat in his stomach.

He doesn’t know how to react, so all he can do is freeze, like a rabbit in view of a fox, as Graves’ tongue pushes against his closed lips.

Graves draws back and says almost pleadingly, “ _Credence_ ,” his hands drifting down to Credence’s jaw, thumbing the corners. He kisses him harder still, trying to nudge Credence’s mouth open, and finally he manages it and his tongue is deep in Credence’s mouth, wet and hungry.

The problem is that Credence can’t tell if the buzzing in his veins is an alarm bell or a thrill of pleasure. The flush prickling his skin feels like shame, and the tightness in his stomach feels like fear, except beneath it all there’s something hotter, more alive, stirring as if on the verge of waking up.

He needs a second to breathe, just a second to try to decide what’s happening to him – but Graves doesn’t give him that. He just keeps kissing him, so fiercely it feels angry, and then pushing him, forcing him back against the wall. Credence gasps at the impact and Graves swallows his breath and then kisses and kisses him.

Should he kiss back? He doesn’t know how, and, anyway, it’s already too much to stand here, letting his head be tilted in Graves’ hands, with his mouth open for the sweep of Graves’ tongue and his heart shuddering rabbit-fast in his chest.

Part of him is desperate for this to end so he can breathe again – but when Graves breaks the kiss, another part of him is devastated. He hears himself make a little broken sound; helplessly he leans in, chasing Graves’ mouth. But Graves tucks his face in against Credence’s, mouth by his ear, and doesn’t kiss him. And so Credence is forced to get used to how his mouth feels now, kissed and now unkissed, the same as always and yet somehow foreign. Newly sensitive and strange.

Graves is muttering into his ear. “I shouldn’t do this.” His hand closes tight on Credence’s arm, squeezes. “You terrible boy.”

His body is pressed against Credence’s. He’s hugged Credence before, drawing him in with an arm around his back, all firm warmth. Credence has replayed the memories many times – the way Graves’ chest moved with his breath, the solid strength of his arms. But this – this is nothing like that. Graves is pushing him so hard against the wall that it hurts.

Suddenly Graves’ teeth are on Credence’s neck. For a brief giddy moment Credence wonders if this is some witch devilry after all, that Graves is a demon about to drain him dry of blood and eat his heart – but Graves, breathing hard against his skin, is only a man, and the bite is only some strange and painful form of kiss.

So Credence doesn’t make any noise, not when Graves kisses under the corner of his jaw and then along the length of it, his stubble rasping against Credence’s skin. He can tell Graves is going to kiss his mouth again and the thought sends a surging, panicked thrill rushing through him. If only he had time to _prepare_ , to protect himself from the hot intensity of it -

Graves is pressing in close to his mouth and Credence can’t help the shudder that runs through him and the soft noise of fear or anticipation that slips from him.

Graves groans. “Credence, do you even understand –” he starts, and then, abruptly, his hand slides down Credence’s arm and closes tightly around his wrist.

He pulls Credence’s hand between their bodies and presses it against himself.

“See,” he says, voice gravel-low. “See what you’ve done to me.”

Credence is not an idiot. He knows what it means, the thick, hot shape beneath his palm. He knows the kinds of things you can do with it.

Holding Credence’s wrist tight, Graves rolls his hips, pushing himself against Credence’s hand. He draws back as he does to look at Credence’s face.

Credence begins to cry.

He’s not afraid of what Graves will do to him. (He doesn’t cry when he’s afraid, anyway.) It’s just, all of a sudden, too much, the still-frantic pound of his heart, the twisted, confused heat in his stomach. He feels dazed, mouth half-aching with the press of Graves’ lips, hand half-scalded by the outline of Graves’ cock. There’s white pressure behind his eyes and when he blinks it comes out as tears, rolling quick and hot down his cheeks.

He hears an intake of breath from Graves, and then Graves pulls away from him, letting his wrist go, stepping back.

Credence fists his hands at his sides and doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” he tries. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graves, I’ll –”

Graves cuts him off, voice gravelly. “No. No, Credence, don’t be sorry.” He takes a step closer and reaches for Credence’s face, curling his hand around Credence’s cheek.

Credence leans instinctively into his touch, and Graves murmurs, “Forgive me. I should never have done that.”

Credence closes his eyes. “I – I liked it.”

Graves huffs out a breath, brushing the tears from Credence’s cheeks with his thumb. “Clearly.”

Credence doesn’t know how to explain that he really did like it. Maybe. That maybe he liked it too much. Or that maybe liking it is irrelevant, because that’s always how kissing is, a blinding rush of sensation and no time to process, and Credence should know that by now.

He doesn’t know how to explain any of that, so instead he’s silent, and lets Graves gently wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“You’re so lovely, Credence, you’re so –” Graves swallows. “– _sensitive_ , I got carried away. The things I would –”

He stops abruptly, biting down on the rest of the words. And then, instead, he leans in, curling his hand around the back of Credence’s neck.

“The last thing I want is to hurt you, Credence, or to frighten you. You’re so special to me. You’re the only one who can help me find the child, and I’ll never let anything jeopardize that.”

Credence lets it rush over him, the warm pressure of Graves’ hands and the low, soothing rhythm of his voice, until it washes the electric panic from his veins.

“Okay?” asks Graves finally, squeezing the back of Credence’s neck.

“Yes,” says Credence. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”

–--

Graves has stopped breathing.

It’s Credence’s fault. He is a thing that seeks and spreads. He pulls himself from Graves’ throat and Graves drags in a ragged breath.

Credence lets him catch his breath. He is in motion, still, pulling the red piping from the edges of Graves’ vest, pushing fingers of darkness up the neatly fitted legs of Graves’ pants. Graves wears sock garters, and Credence tugs at them and unclips them and unbuckles them.

He has enough tendrils touching Graves that when Graves manages to speak again, he can feel the vibration of it. “Credence,” says Graves. His voice is rough, desperate. “Let me help you, Credence, please. You’re amazing like this, powerful, beautiful. Let me be at your side, Credence, and we will do great things. Wonderful things, _Credence_ –”

_Don’t say that word._

Once, Credence had drowned himself in Graves’ words, had swallowed them until his heart felt as full and delicate as an overripe fruit. _Credence_ , Graves had said, and Credence had believed. 

Whose fault is it that Credence is now this howling, heartless thing that only knows how to destroy? Before Graves, he was a boy filled with pain, yes – but he was a boy.

Now –

_I am not that boy. I am not that word._

In one dark, churning rush he presses himself against Graves. Lays himself down like a weight on Graves’ chest, presses himself to his arms and his legs. Pushes Graves’ fingers against the concrete, and his heels, and the side of his face. He is a great dark shape, suspended over Graves like a body made of shadow, touching him everywhere.

_Do you see, Mr. Graves?_

Credence touches Graves’ throat. He can feel each labored breath, the effort it takes for Graves to manage, “Credence –!”

_Do you see what you’ve done to me?_

He touches, too, Graves’ cock.

It’s half-hard under the thin fabric of his underwear. Credence presses himself against it. Just like when Graves had kissed him, and just like each time afterwards that Credence had replayed it in his head, lying alone in his narrow bed, his stomach in knots and his throat tight as he hitched his hips desperately up against the flat of his palm.

Graves gasps, breath pulling Credence into his mouth, and his eyes open, wide and dark. His hips jerk. His cock is growing under Credence’s touch. Credence wonders whether Graves’ body is urging him to give himself to Credence or flee from him. Credence hopes that it’s both at once, and that Graves is confused and alone in his confusion. He hopes that there is electric panic enough in Graves’ veins to burn him, strife enough in his guts to knots and wither them.

But none of that matters, ultimately. Credence holds Graves pinned to the ground, so he can’t flee, and he can’t offer Credence anything that Credence couldn’t just take.

Graves is still wearing his underwear but Credence finds his way under them, slipping into the fly, under the waistband, up from Graves’ thighs. He twists himself around and around Graves’ cock, feeling the veins on it, the rounded head, the silky-soft skin and the hot pulse of blood.

“Cre–” tries Graves, a rising pitch, but then his breath catches on a groan when Credence encircles his balls and tugs at them. So Credence keeps pulling at them, and stroking Graves’ cock, and pushing fingers of darkness through his pubic hair and along the creases by his thighs. Eventually he finds his way down, back, between the cheeks of Graves’ ass.

He is a thing that seeks out weaknesses, and he finds one here.

Credence is not an idiot. He had been taught, once, what wicked men do to boys, and he has never forgotten it. And he has even thought of it before, in the dark of night – wondering what Graves would have done to him, if he had kept still and hadn’t cried.

But surely, he would tell himself, Graves would never actually do something so crude and violent. Even as tight as his hand had been on Credence’s arm, even as hot and relentless as his tongue had been in Credence’s mouth – it always seemed impossible that such a sinful act could exist in the same world as magical, sophisticated Mr. Graves.

Of course Credence hadn’t known, then, that every gentle word and warm touch was a lie. Now, thinking back, he realizes that the fierce, frightening kiss might have been one of the few honest things Graves ever did.

Maybe he should have endured it. Maybe he should have swallowed down the kiss and whatever came after. In case he could have learned, even back then, the cruel and selfish thing that Graves truly is, and not been duped any longer.

But he knows now. Now, he’s pressed close to Graves, every inch of him, barely letting air in for Graves’ rapid breaths. But still he wants to be closer, to find every hidden place, to crack Graves’ every weakness.

And so he enters Graves, a thin black tendril pushed into the tight, strange inside of him. Graves reacts instantly, his whole body trembling, his legs drawing up and open, the air pushing out of him in a helpless groan.

Yes, Credence thinks, he can destroy Graves like this.

He presses himself as deep as he can into Graves, and when Graves gasps, he pushes into his mouth. He has no plan other than he can’t stop moving, pressing, and seeking, rubbing himself against Graves’ body and swirling tightly around Graves’ cock, as Graves jerks and trembles in his grip, eyes pressed tightly closed, breath coming in great shuddering gasps.

Credence feels power thrilling through him, like flashes of lightning in the roaring dark mass of him.

_Give me everything you have, Mr. Graves._

Credence has destroyed buildings. He hadn’t meant to, but it had been so easy: just a series of tiny fractures, until the building has no choice but to collapse. Utter destruction carried out through an accumulation of subtle and inevitable changes.

That’s how it is with Graves, too. There’s no sweeping change in him, but a series of tiny things: his body clenching down on Credence, his cock starting to leak little droplets of precome. Credence just keeps touching him, all over, like he can cover Graves in darkness inside and out.

Before long Graves is alive with tension, muscles tightening and relaxing in fast, rhythmic waves, his body shuddering around and within Credence. He breathes in huge, desperate gasps and his hips keep jerking in Credence’s grip.

He feels so fragile, like one more push will shatter him, and oh, Credence is a thing that shatters.

He holds Graves’ cock inside of himself and he touches it, a slow, tight, lingering stroke as if he’s coaxing from Graves a secret.

When it happens, it’s quieter than any of the destruction that Credence has accomplished before this. Graves’ voice pushes out of him in a shout, but it’s muffled by the swirling blackness in his mouth, and the rest of it is silent: Graves going tense all over, his body twitching around Credence, his cock jerking and spilling slickness into Credence’s greedy grasp.

Credence lets the vibrations of Graves’ shout echo through every particle of him. He makes firmaments in himself with the shining beads of Graves’ come.

Graves, eyes closed, chest heaving, lies still.

Distantly, from outside the circle he’s made around Graves, Credence is aware of more people rushing onto the subway platform. They’re holding wands and they’re yelling.

Someone cries, “Wait! It has Graves!”

Credence looks down at Graves, ruined on the ground, and thinks:

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [calllay](http://calllay.tumblr.com/post/154891566154/what-youve-done-to-me-callay-fantastic-beasts) on Tumblr!


End file.
